Volunteering Isn't Choosing, but thank you for your sacrifice
by Queen Johanna of the Trees
Summary: The people who wanted to win. Something. Or loved someone, or needed something, or didn't have another option, or didn't know what they were doing. These are the twelve districts' first and last volunteers.
1. District One

The districts of Panem. Their first volunteers, and their last. The ones who got to choose, but they didn't really, because you can't choose this.

* * *

 _District One only rearranges its thinness: they show ribs in Twelve, but here, have the tiniest, most flawless waists and collarbones. Their hips are daggers cutting inward._

* * *

Two got a head start and churned out two blood-gorged mastiffs in five years. No, no no no, we are refined here. We will not send just anyone. We are not cavemen, you see; we cannot simply pick our strongest, because Two is stronger. We pick flowers with golden hair and nettles you cannot see until you clutch at them. Later we will grow roses and lilies of the valley and all sorts of nightshade, but we have nothing now. We want annual allowances of sugar. We need our Capitol's love back, our Father. We are desperate.

Gisele is a corpse flower.

It is the sixth Hunger Games, and Corona Lowry is tall and blonde but crying on the stage, thick, horrible sobbing. She will die. Gisele hunches, and her dark hair is matted where it isn't chopped near the skull. She grunts, pushes her own path through, treads up to Corona and smacks her across the face. The mark is doubly dark with dirt. She grabs Corona's neck to pull her down to hiss in her ear. We do not hear all of her words, but in them are 'disgusting' and 'worthless' and 'shaming the district.' Gisele knows:

A) it is not shameful to be ugly and dangerous instead of beautiful and dead.

B) she is bringing pride to her district, more pride than she ever would have, and disgusting is figurative, and worth is 'how many bodies will you bring down,' not 'how much is your body worth in looks and touches.' This is where Gisele will be worth something.

C) Four and Seven have victors. _Eleven_ has a victor. It's ridiculous, it can't be allowed. They're filthy, disgusting fishers, lumberjacks, monkeys in the apple trees. _They're_ worthless, not her, they're ugly and gross and they're nothing. She's better, she has to be. She's better and they're nothing. She _does_ deserve this.

Gisele does not know:

A) she is wrong. She embarrasses us. We appreciate her effort all the same, we say.

It is the sixth Hunger Games, and they have just allowed the formal goodbyes in the justice building. Gisele locks the door. She doesn't need to. Even Corona doesn't come. We interview Corona after the Games. She says she is sorry. She is a good liar; we are proud of her. Corona smells like nectarines and rainwater. She wears penance in plain view and clean, homespun white silk.

Gisele smells of bodies and a raw need to be needed. They clothe her in bruise purple and sickened green and dying white, and shave her filthy head. Her partner Argent, tall and blond and convincingly at ease with his death, is in silver. They are not a pair.

District Two mocks her smell, which the Capitol showers do not purge. Gisele laughs derisively with them until she realizes what they're laughing at. She furrows her heavy face and nails Two boy in the ribs with a barbell. When he can stand and breathe through the fracture, he holds his breath anyway to pick her up and throw her into the climbing wall. He looks at Argent, who looks at this cave rat slime, the blind mole who is still from his district, this wilted scum, and Argent makes a choice.

We hear about it from our Capitol contacts. We assure Argent's family he did the right thing. Gisele is not really a One. She deserves nothing like One solidarity. She deserves nothing.

Two's ribs are bandaged on the day the Games begin, but Gisele wavers on one leg. The ankle is sprained, and in the x-ray, they found an inch-long plastic shard nestled next to the kneecap. It's better than the other leg. She should probably be crying. Gisele doesn't want to cry. She's sixteen years old and she thought we would be proud of her and she really couldn't have been more wrong.

The arena is a hothouse of carnivorous flies, grasping vines and rotting fruit. Gisele knows she will not make it more than a day. We would have mourned her, but she plunges Argent into a cloud of flies. We betrayed her, we see on her face. Argent didn't deserve this. We did. We grew him. But we always owe somebody, and Gisele is too short and dark and ugly to count. We gladly give her up to the vines.

We don't find her family, and hold no funeral. If she had one, they were right to stay silent.

The only good thing Gisele ever did was save Corona for next year. We love Corona. Corona is a lily of the valley. We abolish Gisele, wipe out the corpse flower. _Corona_ is our first volunteer, we say. She makes us so proud.

* * *

 _District One wishes its children were born too hideous for Father to want._

* * *

Gloss thought he lost his sister once. He wasn't going to do it again. He knows they'll have to call him up too. The golden twins together again, the king and queen in a chess game they're rigged to lose, because of the Twelve slut, but he's not going to do that. He's going to break their damn chessboard. Just as soon as they call him up. He'll make them pay.

But they don't call him. They say "Culverin" into the ringing, breezeless One air. Culverin the idiot who trained with guns, how _stupid_ can you get, guns that have never once been used in the arena, and Gloss was just entering the Academy when Culverin was going to volunteer, and he wasn't quite seven but knew how the Games were supposed to go. Culverin should've died. He wasn't good enough to be allowed stupidity. Victory was the best thing that could ever happen to anyone in the world, everyone knew that, and Culverin didn't deserve it. But strings got pulled, Culverin probably sucked off somebody important, and lo, guns. He got victory served to him on a golden platter, but _Gloss_ is golden. Not Culverin. Cashmere is golden. She can't go in with this filthy pewter thing who will unravel her perfection by association, who will so easily let her die. Culverin doesn't deserve to be paired with her. Gloss loves her. So much more and better than anyone knows. Even her. She doesn't understand sometimes.

Culverin got Glimmer killed last year because he is worthless and wrong. Cashmere cried. Gloss doesn't want to see that ever again. If he dies for her, he won't have to.

Cashmere. Glimmer. Culverin. Gloss. Glimmer and Cashmere and Culverin and Gloss and Cashmere, Cashmere is better than anyone, she is more than all the furs and perfumes and shimmering nothings in the world, which is Panem, which is Cashmere's. Cashmere Cashmere. He thinks it so much it never sounds like a word anymore. He loves her like nobody else can.

Gloss volunteers for Culverin, for Cashmere. He hates Culverin. He loves his baby sister. It's okay, baby. Everything's going to be okay. He's here for her. Always. Love you, baby girl.

"I thought I was going to get away from you this time," says Cashmere on the train, in the voice he's filed as #138: teasing, but serious, but allowing but not wanting and carefully not crying. She's always been a little bit of a crybaby. It's okay, though, because he keeps tissues in his pockets for her. They're scented, like her skin, and so fluffy and light.

"You'll never do that, Cashmere." She doesn't want to love him, but that's what sisters and brothers do, love each other. Especially twins. Like the gods themselves knew they should be together.

He loves her that night, and every night. He would die for her.

Then- he does. There is nothing better. She deserves nothing less. His princess.

He doesn't see her embrace the axe: a shiny, rushed angel of death, too late to protect her from most things, but not too soon for her to smile #65: relieved, but apprehensive, but understanding and unloved.

Cashmere hated love.

* * *

And there were no more corpse flowers or golden angels, and District One could sleep alone.


	2. District Two

The districts of Panem. Their first volunteers, and their last. The ones who got to choose, but they didn't really, because you can't choose this.

* * *

 _District Two is more Twelve than they would ever admit. They will not say when they're hurt. They fear cave-ins more than anything except treachery. When tragedies happen, they can do nothing but pick themselves up and get on with their lives. They know when to fight and when they have to roll over._

* * *

Dear Mom, Dad, Patina, Galena, Alaric, Lars, Antonia, and Antonia, your little new baby, what's her name, I don't remember I'm sorry, is it Porcia? And dear Mister Kernel, and Clawdie, and all the other pets.

Well...surprise!

I'm in the Capitol. Supposed to be sleeping, actually. Oops. I'll give this to an Avox to send it to you back home. I just wanted to explain, okay. I know it won't make you happier. I'm sorry.

They _said_ volunteering instead of the tribeute was allowed. But it's only the Second Annul Hunger Games, so nobody did it yet. I'm in history now! That'll be neat, I guess. Antonia, you have to show me to your baby in the history books. What's her name? It starts with p. And it has a r. I definitely know that. Prunella?

It's about the shop. Dad, I wasn't supposed to know that you were losing all your money and the shop was going to go broke, but I did. Nobody wants to buy pets. They can't aford it. We just finished a war. All our dogs were going to starve, and our cats, and the fish and mice and Mister Kernel in the corner. Mister Kernel's feathers are already falling out. He doesn't say things back anymore. And you know the shop was seriously bad, I'm not overeacting, because Antonia's baby is doing really bad. She doesn't lift her head anymore. She doesn't look at stuff so much now. She's hungry and doesn't get her vitamins. I know you're all scared she'll grow up like me and you're right. She's such a good baby. She shouldn't ought to be stupid. I wish I remembered her name instead of Mister Kernel's name. I think it's Priscilla.

If I win none of us will ever be hungry or cold or stupid again.

I know what I have to do in the areana. I know I don't know a lot of things but I do know that. I'm going to kill twenty three people and then I'll get a crown and go home, like last year on the television. Our television's broke so you're watching it in the square with lots of other people, and they'll help you out too because they will feel so bad for you, and they'll give you little foods and things, like last year with Decius and Mara! I thought about everything, see?

I'm really strong. I can run fast if it's not over crumbly rocks or anything. I can throw things too. Don't worry about me. You will just have to cover your eyes when I kill somebody. Antonia, you shouldn't have Petronia see it at all. I don't want her to be scared. There's going to be a lot of blood and I'm scared about that too. I'll probaly have to cover my eyes when I kill somebody too!

Everything is going to be okay.

It's just fighting. I got the Wrestling Award Second Place when I was thirteen and it's still on my wall. It isn't even very hard to kill somebody, they told me. You have to be so careful with people. You can break their neck or push them off a high-up place. You can cut them in a lot of spots and they'll bleed until they're dead. They can eat the wrong thing or not eat enough and they just fall over dead themselves. And it's just twenty three of them. There were so many more in the war. This is going to be okay. I promise.

I love you. Mom and Dad, the shop will be okay now. Your hair is gray because you're worried about it, but you're not even fifty. Patina will get to marry the foreman's son Harker because she can buy a nice dress and make-up. And Galena can buy all the water color paint she wants. Alaric and Lars can get real bicicles to ride to school on and nobody will laugh at them or beat them up again. Antonia can take care of her baby, and send her to college and everything.

I love you. And it's going to be okay.

Goodbye, I love you.

From,

Theseus.

And keep this letter in the family, okay? It's a prievate thing, okay. Don't show it to anyone else. It's for you. I love you. PS.

And I just thought of something! For when I come home, I can teach other District Two kids how to do good in the other Annul Hunger Games. How to fight and stuff. I'll make them strong and know how to fight like me. And if I die somebody else can teach them for me. You'll have to tell them. But I'm not going to die. PS.

From Theseus Raine.

Prisca! It's Prisca. Antonia, your baby's name is Prisca. I remembered. If I can remember something so hard, I can win the Second Annul Hunger Games. It can't be so hard. I know how to kill people, from back in the war. Even kids again. PS.

Or Paria. Maybe it's Paria. But I can still do it. I'm not scared. I love you. PS.

From Theseus.

Dad, how's Clawdie doing? Is she okay? Is she happy? She was almost ready for her litter when I left. Did she birth them yet? If she did, name one of the kittens Elizabeth for me, okay? I really like that name. Thanks, Daddy.

* * *

 _District Two buries its fallen tributes on the top of its tallest eastern hill, where the sun rises. Victor or child, they greet the dawn._

* * *

Brutus turned the corner, hiking boots crunching gravel, and fiddled with his watch to start a five-minute break. The training centre was bigger around than a Capitol lady's tit, but he had seven laps left to go. Ain't no kid in training slacking off for the day. He wasn't about to himself. Set an example. He looked around cautiously before dumping his water over his head. Running fingers through bristly hair, enjoying the coolness that rinsed away his sweat, he froze.

The old man was on the bench up by the aspens. Not even watching him. Just stroking the cat on his lap.

 _The_ old man.

Brutus jogged over to be respectful-like, adjusting his soaked top with a mite of self-consciousness. "Morning, sir."

The man dragged his attention off the fat gray cat, peering through his cataracts. He could have gotten them fixed easier than anything, but he always said he didn't trust those fancy surgeons in the Capitol. "Eh? Well, yes, it is."

"I'm...sorry, sir? What is?"

Theseus smiled, cracked and content, into the sunrise. "Morning."

Brutus had to let himself smile too. Just a little.

"That's a nice cat, sir."

"Elizabeth, her name is. I got her waaaay back when I won my games. She's had piles of litters since then, I can tell you. But she's still alive! Just like me. Isn't that funny?"

Brutus twisted his mouth a few centimeters. It was more emotion than he was used to showing off, so he twisted it back. "That's great, sir."

Theseus squinted past the top of the Raine Centre for Physical Perfection, into the cloudless sky, somewhere past the sun. "There's a storm coming, you know that?"

"It looks pretty clear out there to me, sir."

"Oh, lad, that's not what I mean. But you look familiar. What's your name again?"

"Brutus, sir." Deadpan. "Brutus Heller. I'm somewhat famous."

"Really? Don't tell me- you must be that nice boy on the televisions who gives those makeup promotions. Yes, Brutus, that's what they called him. 'Hi, it's Brutus here, and you are going to look downright fierce today!' Eh?" Theseus' toothless attempt to lisp ended up splashing Brutus' shirt. "Or maybe Bruce, it was. Never mind. Maybe I'll remember sometime."

"That's all right, sir."

"Don't mention it."

"If you're worried about a storm, sir, I could take you back to your rooms. It can get mighty chilly out here in the rain."

"No, no." Theseus sat back, scratching Elizabeth gently between the ears. "It's the seventy-first annual Hunger Games, isn't it? No, seventy-fourth. It's almost on us, I can tell you. You saw that nice District Twelve girl, with the sister?"

Mouth twist that he was not going to hide, by damn. "Yessir. Upstart, that one."

"There's a storm coming. Mark you my words. And I wanna see it happen." He tilted his head, as if feeling raindrops. Turned back to Brutus. Something about the milky eyes _twanged_ down his spine and came to rest somewhere around his stomach. "You'll be chasing that storm."

"If you say so, sir."

"I do, I do. And tell Barbarian that too. She'll be reaching for that lightning, all right."

"Barb- Enobaria, sir?"

"Mmmhmm. Tell her." He clutched Elizabeth close. Keeping her warm and safe from the flood Brutus couldn't see. "I won't be there to do it, you know."

"You're in good health for your age, sir. Everything's going to be just fine. Let me bring you inside."

"No, tell her! Promise me. On Elizabeth. Very important. And Mr. Kernel, and Clawdie. You have to."

"Okay. It's okay, sir. Whatever you want. I'll tell them about the storm."

* * *

And they buried him on the hilltop, in the highest place saved for him, where the flood wouldn't get his feet wet, he said, and so he could see the rainbow when it came.

* * *

 **Hey hey hey, sweetness and light: this should encourage someone, if I dare hope. I am broke on ideas, and would be more than delighted to receive future volunteers from you beautiful disasters. Reviews are great for that sort of thing, or PMs if you want to keep secrets from people poking around in there. No bigass form: just tell me what you think I need to know, and I'll do the rest. Thanks _so_ much.**

 **...I just want somebody to talk to me. :'(**

 **Send in your ideas, I'll pick the ones with most potential/coolest, and I'll credit you when they show up! What could go wrong.**


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